Pipe Smoke and London Fog
by Master Of All Imagination
Summary: An anthology of short Sherlock Holmes fanfic, mostly one-shots.  No slash. T for safety.  Disclaimer: The words are mine, the characters aren't.
1. Batman Meets Sherlock Holmes

Batman Meets Sherlock Holmes

**A/N: A crossover fic, if you will. The product of random pondering on what Holmes and Watson would do if they, by some incredible twist of a space-time paradox, met Batman on the streets of London in the course of a case.**

"Obviously the fellow is very rich," Holmes said to me as we were idling by a store window. I glanced around, trying to find the source of his statement. He grabbed my arm to stop my movement and indicated the reflection in the window of a man dressed all in black crossing the street behind us. We had been tailing him for some time now, trying to find out what the mysterious man's purpose was in London. So far, I only knew that his name was Bruce Wayne, and that he had arrived three days ago.

"How do you deduce that, Holmes? He is dressed as simply as the rest of us!" I exclaimed. Holmes said in an undertone,

"It is not only clothes which can give an indication of wealth. Take a look at that tool belt he wears. Certainly not a set of workman's tools. One is a grappling hook, another is a compact revolver, and another is a strange contraption which seems to be an incredibly small telephone." I wondered how he could make all that out from the reflection in the store window. I knew my friend's eyes were sharp, but not that sharp.

"Holmes, there is no such telephone in existence which is that small."

"I am merely stating facts, Watson." After a pause, he added, "And he is also an orphan."

"Really, Holmes! Don't you think you are taking it a bit too far?" I exclaimed.

"If I told my chain of reasoning, you would likely arrive at the same conclusion."

"Then please enlighten me, Holmes."

"We have been watching him three days now, have we not?"

"Yes," said I.

"And in that time, he has jumped from one rooftop to another, used a strange cape- like apparatus to glide from enormous heights, quickly and efficiently dispatched numerous thugs, and all the while managing to avoid attracting the- admittedly lax- attentions of the constabulary. Now tell me, Watson. What decent, self- respecting mother allows a son to engage in such dangerous activities? What father simply stands by and watches his boy commit acts of vigilantism? And where does the caped crusader get the money for his astonishing tool belt? Direct inheritance, I assure you. So we know he is an orphan, rich, and was wronged some way in his childhood."

"I follow you completely up until the last bit."

"Honestly, Watson. What kind of Englishman takes it into his head to go after the scum of London's underbelly, single-handedly and systematically beating them all to scintillating pulp?" A small smile played at the corner of my lips as I seized the opening Holmes had so clumsily allowed.

"We do, Holmes." My smile widened as his eyebrow rose just a fraction, acknowledging that I had just scored a point.

"Yes, well, that is beside the matter. Simple psychological studies have proven numerous times that traumatic childhood experiences often have pronounced effects on adult life. It is obvious this man was badly wronged as a child. Moreover, seeing as he is an orphan, we can infer that that wrong was the murder of his parents. Now that he is all grown up, he has decided to take his revenge against all evildoers." I shook my head wonderingly, finding it surprising as always that somehow these astounding conclusions made sense. But then again, one could expect nothing less from Sherlock Holmes.

"Amazing, as always, Holmes."

"Elementary, my dear Watson."


	2. Two Things

Two Things

**A/N: I was watching Iron Man the other day, and the scene where he is getting off the plane and he tells Pepper Potts he wants two things, a cheeseburger and a press conference, inspired this. R&R!**

Lestrade could not understand that after spending two months held hostage in a warehouse, there were only two things I wanted. And both of them were, hopefully, waiting for me at Baker Street. His intentions were admirable, of course. Questions of "Are you alright? Are you hungry? Tired?" fell on deaf ears. The train ride into London was possibly the longest of my life. I could not bear Lestrade's questions, and I feigned sleep to escape them. Finally, I found myself once more in London, and the acrid, fog-filled air had never smelled sweeter.

Lestrade was attempting to goad me into accompanying him to Scotland Yard to brief them on any evidence I might have gathered during my incarceration. I politely declined. When he became insistent, though, I told him in no unsure terms:

"Inspector Lestrade, after spending two months in a dirty, dingy, lonely warehouse, there are only two things I want: to see Watson and to smoke a pipe." Lestrade raised an eyebrow, but made no more objections. As I had no pocket change, Lestrade generously paid for a cab and I started on my way back to Baker Street.

I had lost my keys as well as my pipe two months ago and I had to ring for Mrs. Hudson and wait for her arrival. Of course, she could hardly have failed to notice the extended absence of one of her more eccentric tenants for two months, and I was subject briefly to her motherly ministrations.

I had offers of tea and biscuits pressed upon me, offers of some dinner being reheated, but I declined all, and told her exactly what I had told Lestrade:

"Mrs. Hudson, there are only two things which I want right now, and they are both upstairs waiting for me in my rooms." The landlady smile knowingly, and I eagerly ascended the stairs. At the top I questioned Mrs. Hudson's receding back, suddenly filled with doubt:

"Is Dr. Watson in?"

"Yes, he's just recently returned," she answered. A smile touched the corners of my mouth.

"Thank you." I opened the door of the flat with no hesitation and stepped in. Nothing had changed during my sojourn. Everything was untouched and in its proper place. God, it was good to be back. I went to my desk, took my pipe from a drawer, and filled it with my best tobacco. Then settling in my customary armchair I lit it, enjoying for the first time in two months the pleasure of a smoke.

From the direction of Watson's bedroom, I suddenly heard a shout.

"Mrs. Hudson? Is that you?" I smiled to myself. He must have heard the door. 'Twas true, for a moment later he walked right past me and out into the sitting room to the door, still clutching a yellow-backed novel he must have been in the midst of reading. He checked the door and was about to turn back to his room when he noticed my hat and stick were once more in their customary spots.

He turned slowly round, and when his eyes beheld me sitting serenely in my chair as if I had never been gone his novel slid from his grasp and he gaped with open-mouthed astonishment at me. I have to admit, my sense of drama was thoroughly satisfied.

"Holmes!" He exclaimed, "You're back!"

"Yes, my dear Watson. And here to stay," I answered. I now had both of the things I had so craved during my imprisonment: my pipe and my Watson. I was truly home.


	3. Lost Umbrella

Lost Umbrella

**A/N: You know the classic line from Star Trek, the one all the doctors in all the series say- "I'm a doctor, not a _"? Well, I got to thinking, what would Watson say? "I'm a doctor, not a detective" of course!**

I was sleeping soundly, but of course, it was not meant to last. I was rudely half awakened at the unholy hour of four A.M. by a shake at my shoulder from Holmes. I sleepily told him to wait until morning, but he finished the job by dumping my water pitcher over my head. I bit back my annoyance at him as I, now thoroughly soaked, sat up in bed and glared blearily at Holmes's expectant face. In another second it dawned that he might have woken me to accompany him on a case. My annoyance dissipated, as I dearly loved working with my friend. But what he said next shattered that quaint notion.

"Watson, it is raining. What have you done with the umbrella?

"Holmes, couldn't this have waited until morning?" I asked grumpily. Holmes shook his head.

"No. I am going out now, and I prefer not to become drenched. You had the umbrella last, and now, it is missing. I need to find it." My exasperation with Holmes had reached a breaking point, and my words reflected my bitterness as I grumbled,

"I believe it is _your_ job to hunt down missing objects, not mine! I'm a doctor, not a detective! Now let me sleep!"

"Fine," Holmes grunted. As he turned to go, though, he shot back at me, "You probably wouldn't have wanted to come with me anyways." My mouth dropped open at the unfairness of it- he knew very well that I always jump at the opportunity to join him on his cases. But I decided that I might have deserved it- I _was_ a bit sharp with him, after all- and to let Holmes have his ramble in the wet London morning alone._ I,_ on the other hand,was going to back to sleep.


	4. Fire

Fire

**A/N: Ooohh, suspense. I won't give anything away…**

Miss Labrette's illness had been more severe than I had at first anticipated, and so I was detained from returning to Baker Street until nearly 7:00. The sun was just setting, and through the hansom's windows I could see a red tinge hanging just above the buildings. As I neared my destination, a curious smell reached my nose. I leaned my head out the window and hailed the cabby.

"Is that wood smoke I smell?" The driver sniffed, then nodded.

"Aye, that it is," he responded. A second later a fire engine sped past us, its driver ringing the bell madly, and my suspicions were confirmed: there was a house fire somewhere ahead of us.

As the cab rattled closer to home and the smell of wood smoke became more and more intense, a small inkling of fear wormed its way into my mind. What if, just maybe, it was Baker Street that was burning? And another thought followed that: Where was Holmes? I tried to remember if he had had any plans today. I had left for my medical rounds in the morning, and Holmes had had a case to attend to. But surely that hadn't taken all day- he was most likely home by now.

With that realization, fear successfully infiltrated my mind. I was filled with it as I urged the driver to hurry. Pretty soon, we were only a street away from the flat, but the road was blocked almost totally by bystanders and empty carriages and he was forced to stop. I paid my fare hurriedly and probably gave the cabby way too much, but what did a few shillings matter when I had no idea if my flat mate had made it out of a burning building alive or not?

I took off running down the street, and when I rounded the corner if any doubt were left in my mind it was erased when I beheld the horrible sight of the flat engulfed in flames. Idlers and tenants of the neighboring buildings were standing around, all with gazes lifted to the blaze. Fire fighters were dousing the building ineffectually with their water hoses, but the blaze was too far gone to be contained.

Pushing my way through the crowd I began calling out Holmes's name as loud as I could. I searched the faces of the gathered, looking desperately for his familiar aquiline features. I couldn't spy him, and I ran my hands through my hair in frustration. Holmes had been through so many dangerous situations in the course of his work, it would be almost an absurdity for him to die, perhaps lounging in his armchair, of a simple house fire.

I had come as near to the flames as would allow, the fire teams holding back the onlookers for thirty or so feet in front of the conflagration. I tried to attract the attention of one of the suited men, but they were all focused on their task and ignored my pleas. My eyes grew wilder as my continued calls of "Holmes! Holmes!" elicited no answer. Temporary relief came to me as a woman grabbed my elbow, and I looked round to see none other than Mrs. Hudson.

She was weeping into her handkerchief. I wondered why she was crying. Panic surfaced as I thought the worst- no. Certainly not. He couldn't be-

I pressed her for details.

"Where is Holmes, Mrs. Hudson? Where is he? Is he safe?" My heart rate when through the roof as I waited for her sob-choked reply.

"I- I don't- I don't kn- kn- kn- know, Dr. Watson. H- h- h- he wasn't in the f- f- f- flat when it happened." A twenty pound weight seemed to lift from my chest, and suddenly it wasn't just the acrid smoke that was making my eyes water. I asked,

"What started it, Mrs. Hudson? Arsonists? Was it on purpose?" I thought of the many enemies Holmes and I had made over the years. I could think of no fewer than five who would think it fitting revenge to burn down our flat.

Mrs. Hudson didn't respond for a moment, and the blaze was making me so hot I had to take off my jacket. Finally she gasped out,

"It-it was _me_, doctor. I- I had a cake in the oven, and-and I had it in too long, I forgot about it, and-and it started the fire. I ran out and c-called the fire brigade, b-but by the time they arrived it was too late." I breathed my second sigh of relief that night. The last thing I wanted to have an arsonist after me.

"Mrs. Hudson," I said soothingly, "Please relax. It was a simple accident, and no one was hurt, thank god. Everything is going to be ok." She seemed a bit calmer. "Now, when did Holmes say he was going to be back?" She took a deep breath and said,

"He didn't, sir. I served dinner at five and he left soon after. He didn't say when he would be back." Then he might still be somewhere around town. The frantic beating of my heart was slowing, and I took in for the first time the total destruction of our flat.

The fire had already done its damage, and the building was little more than a brick husk. Everything wooden had been charred and eaten by the flames. The windows had shattered and the brick façade, devoid of support, was beginning to crumble. All around on the street, water logged wreckage adorned the cobblestones. I thought of Holmes's meticulously prepared scrapbooks, my own journals with records of all our cases together, Holmes's Stradivarius- all lost, reduced to mere kindling. But it was a small loss compared to what it could have been. Losing all my earthly possessions meant nothing beside the safety of my dear Holmes. I would forever be grateful to whatever case had called him out of the house on that fateful night.

I must have stood next to Mrs. Hudson watching the flames for less than ten minutes, and the firefighters were beginning to get the upper hand of their battle with the flames when I heard a voice raised above the crackling din of the blaze I had once thought never to hear again.

"Watson!" I dimly heard Holmes shout. "Watson!" I took up the refrain, wandering towards his voice.

"Holmes! Where are you?" Holmes answered quickly,

"Watson! Over here!" He was waving his jacket above the crowd, and I immediately pushed my way towards him

"I'm coming Holmes!" I yelled, and in a moment I was looking once more on that face of my best friend. His eyes were frazzled, his clothing soot-stained, but he was alive, and his eyes lit up with their old spark upon seeing me and his shoulders slumped in relief.

"Watson! Where have you been? I thought the worst when I saw the flames- I've barely got back from the scene of a murder." I was so relieved to see Holmes unscathed, and I could tell from his voice he was too.

"I'd been treating a sick woman and it took longer than I had thought. Holmes, I-" I paused, and he looked straight at me. "I'm glad you're ok." He took my hand in both of his.

"So am I, my dear Watson. So am I."

**A/N: Don't really know how fire men fought fires back then. Hope I got it at least part way right. **


	5. The Ticking Briefcase

The Ticking Briefcase

**A/N: I was ruminating on the Potter Puppet Pals classic "The Mysterious Ticking Noise" when this popped into my head. Enjoy! **

The train route from Paris to the coast of France ran along ten miles of the most spectacular cliffs I have ever seen. In some places, it was a ten-story drop to the roiling white breakers below. Holmes and I luckily had seats on the left side of the train, and so were treated to the spectacular views. The cliffs absorbed all my attention, but Holmes had his chin sunk on his breast, either asleep or deep in thought, and my repeated attempts to draw his attention to the view were ineffectual.

Suddenly he sat up straight and alert, staring directly ahead. Before I could say anything, he commanded me,

"Watson. Walk out of the compartment right now."

"Holmes, what-"

"Do as I say! Open the door, right NOW!" Spurred into action by his urgent tone, I slid open the door and stepped out… right into a passing gentleman. He had dropped the leather briefcase he was carrying and I picked it up for him, pressing it back into his hands with profuse apologies. I could not help glancing accusatorily at Holmes, but he was not looking at me. Instead, I saw to my surprise he was studying with marked intensity the man with the briefcase. I said to the man,

"Excuse me, sir. Terribly sorry. I did not see you coming." He looked down at me with dark eyes and replied in French,

"Pardonnez-moi, monsieur. Pardonnez moi." I ducked back into the compartment to let him pass, and closing the door once more I said,

"I think you owe me an explanation, Holmes. What was the point in having me suddenly open the door on such short notice?" He did not answer immediately. He quickly reopened the door and gazed out into the hallway, evidently searching for something. He sat back down again just as quickly, but he kept the door slightly ajar.

"I have an acute sense of hearing, Watson. As such, when I heard that man's footsteps approaching our compartment, I also registered another noise. It was so slight I could not be sure what the source was, so I asked you to step out and so give me a chance to listen more closely. Sure enough, I identified the mysterious sound." I was hanging on his every word, and he knew it. His pause reeked of the dramatic. Finally, he announced, "It was the sound of ticking."

"Is that significant?" I queried. Holmes fixed me with a steady gaze.

"It may mean life or death." For a moment, I was inclined to believe that Holmes was jesting, but I knew my friend well, and he was not the type to jest.

Holmes had resumed staring out of the crack in the compartment door, and he all of a sudden jumped up and opened the door fully.

"Hurry, Watson! We have just time enough to prevent a tragedy!" I was lost and confused beyond all words, unable to string together Holmes's actions, but I followed him nonetheless as he darted out into the corridor and made his way down to the end of the car. He said to me urgently,

"Keep your eyes peeled for the briefcase that the gentleman you nearly knocked down was carrying. Its location should be denoted by the sound of ticking, like a clock." We had just transferred to the next car, and it was filled with luggage. I heard Holmes groan softly, then proceed to start a mad search through the accumulated suitcases, briefcases, bags, trunks, and other paraphernalia that our fellow travelers had thought prudent to bring along. I began my search at the back, though hardly knowing what for, listening intently at every brown briefcase I picked up, and casting aside those that made no noise.

When fifteen minutes had passed in fruitless search, I began to wonder what should happen if someone were to see us pawing through the luggage. Surely, we would be put off at the next stop. Holmes seemed not to care about any passers-by, though, and he had not looked up from his work once since we began. I stood with my hands on my hips for a moment, my back aching from stooping too long, when I detected a faint ticking like a clock coming from a briefcase at my feet. I picked it up and placed an ear to it, listening for a moment. It was, indeed, ticking. What business a suitcase had to tick I had no idea, but I dutifully informed Holmes of my find.

"Holmes! I have found the source of the ticking!" I was holding it up, and when Holmes saw it, relief transformed his face. I could not fathom why he should be so strongly affected by it. He skillfully navigated the sea of luggage to my side and pressed his ear to the case. He nodded to himself and told me matter- of- factly,

"Watson, what you hold in your hands is a bomb. Now kindly hand it over to me very carefully, and I will diffuse it." I fear I spluttered as I said,

"A bomb? Is that why it was ticking?" Holmes suddenly fixed me with an intense stare.

"Watson. You said it _was_ ticking? And it is not anymore?" Realization began to dawn on me as the expression in Holmes's eyes turned as close to panic as his extremely rational mind would allow.

Then a change came over him and moving lithe and fast he undid the catch of the nearest window and raised it, beckoning me with great urgency.

"For god's sake, man, if you value your life get that out the window!" I instantly came over and pitched it as hard as I could over the cliff and into the sea below. Holmes closed the sash, turned, and put one arm over his head and another around my shoulders, forcing me down amongst the baggage. A second later, an explosion rocked the train, a deep echoing BOOM that dislodged the trunks and jostled the train. Holmes held me down for a few seconds afterwards, and then cautiously got up. I had the distinct feeling we had just cheated death. I brushed off my clothes and looked at him, perplexed.

"Holmes, would you _please_ tell me what is going on? Why did I just have to throw a bomb out of a train window?" Holmes turned to me, and taking out his pipe, told me calmly,

"We have just foiled the attempted bombing of this train by Horatio Augustus, the most notorious bomb maker in all Paris. Now if you will accompany me back to our compartment, I shall be glad to fill you in on the whole chain of events." When we were once more seated comfortably, Holmes laid aside his pipe and began.

"When I first heard that ticking noise, I knew it could be one of two things- a bomb or a clock. The latter is a strange thing to carry about with you when one can just as easily have a pocket-watch, so I deduced the former. Knowing a bomb was on board the train, I immediately had you stop that man to get a better look at him. To my shock and surprise, I recognized him from a photograph Lestrade once showed me as Horatio Augustus, a wanted bomb maker and saboteur, notorious in Paris for using his explosives to infiltrate bank safes. I kept the door open and watched him enter a compartment at the end of the car, leave again with the briefcase, and then return once more without it. That must have meant he had planted the bomb, and since he was gone a negligible amount of time in inferred he had left it in the next car. That proved, as you saw, to be the luggage train, an apt and fitting hiding place. You were with me for the rest."

I was staggered by my friend's quick deductions, and the fact that he had just saved every passenger on the train- including myself- from certain death.

"But, Holmes, how will you explain away the explosion? Everyone on the train felt it!" He smiled and put his pipe to his lips.

"That, my dear Watson, is up to the traveler's imaginations."

**A/N: I really have no idea what the coast of France looks like… or, indeed, whether they even have cliffs. But I needed a plausible setting for this story, and France wasn't too exotic so I picked it.**


	6. Run Fast, Watson!  Hide the Cocaine!

Run Fast, Watson! Hide the Cocaine!

**A/N: I don't know where this came from… I really like the title though! The story couldn't decide if it wanted to be humorous or not… I think it ended up being a fail of a hodge-podge of both… anyways. I'm not very happy with the way it turned out, but maybe you'll like it better than me. All I can say is, read and review!**

I had been wrestling with my conscience for over a week now, and concern for my friend and my medical ethics had finally won me over. That afternoon I resolved definitely to steal and hide Holmes's cocaine bottle. I looked long and hard at it sitting innocently on the mantle. My hatred for it had driven me to petty theft. Before I could change my mind, I swiped it down and clutched it in my hand. I have to admit, to my shame, I glanced around guiltily as I did so, even though I knew no one could possibly be watching me. Now to find a hiding place.

After looking in vain for some nook or cranny unknown to Holmes, I gave up; for I was sure his knowledge of the messy flat would render its discovery eventually. No, I would not hide it in the sitting room. I would keep it on my person. What better place, I figured, to keep something concealed?

No sooner had I reached this decision than I heard steps on the stair that announced my friend's return. I hurriedly flopped down in my armchair, trying to look casual, snatching up a newspaper that I just managed to turn right side up before Holmes made his entrance.

"Good day, Watson," he said to me.

"Good day, Holmes," I returned. I watched out of the corner of my eye as he shrugged off his coat, took off his hat and laid down his stick. It was just a matter of time now before Holmes, caseless and bored, would once more want his cocaine. I waited with bated breath, nervously touching the lump of the bottle through my jacket.

Holmes had sat across from me and lit his pipe. I glanced over my newspaper and saw he was staring straight at me, an expression of curiosity on his face. I quickly raised the newspaper higher.

"Watson, there is something on your mind." Holmes had scored a bulls-eye, but I was not about to admit it.

"Nonsense, Holmes, I am perfectly at my ease." I could almost feel his gaze penetrating through the newspaper.

"Watson, I have not lived with you for so long as to be so unaccustomed to you that I cannot tell when you are preoccupied. Your mien is furtive and you have been reading that paper for ten minutes without turning the page. You also keep reaching for your left breast pocket, so I infer you have an object on your person that is the source of your considerable consternation. Out with it, Watson." My face blanched at this frank and true assessment. However, I was committed to keeping the bottle away from Holmes at all costs, and so I said to him,

"You are mistaken, Holmes. I am perfectly fine aside from feeling a bit weary. If you will excuse me, I think I will retire early." Holmes's eyebrows were near his hairline as I, at only quarter past three, crisply folded my newspaper away and left. I knew Holmes was suspicious, and I could not bear his scrutiny.

By the time Mrs. Hudson brought up dinner I was feeling markedly less like a thief afraid of being found out and more like my old self again. We ate in silence, I returning to my bedroom after the meal. I wondered why Holmes had not yet noticed the absence of his worst vice yet.

I did not have long to wonder because around 8 o'clock I heard Holmes call my name from the sitting room in a tone that brooked no disobedience. Running a finger around my collar and taking a deep breath, I confronted Holmes.

"You've taken it, Watson," he said. The direct approach. Holmes never was one to bandy words. "I don't know why I didn't realize it before. I would like it back, please." This was it. The moment of truth.

"No, Holmes." My friends gaze hardened, and I hurried on before my nerve failed me. "I have asked you, bargained with you, negotiated with you, _pleaded_ again and again that you stop your use of this infernal drug, and I have reached my wit's end. I am sorry, Holmes, but this is the only way." Holmes said quietly,

"Watson, I know you believe you are doing your duty to me as a friend and doctor by keeping the bottle from me, but I assure you it is not necessary." I squared my shoulders and looked him straight in the eye.

"And _I _assure _you_, my friend, that it _is_ necessary. This bottle," and I took it out of my pocket as I said it, "shall remain with me at all times until you decide you do not need it anymore." Holmes could see I was serious. He tried to reason with me.

"But Watson, my mind rebels-"

"At stagnation, I know. But you will just have to find a less damaging way to stave off stagnation." Holmes's face was inscrutable for a minute. Then he did something very immature.

He lunged across the table at me, reaching for the bottle in my hand. He was fast, and his long arm incredibly agile, and I was not quite quick enough to stop him from snatching it from me. I jerked my hand back at the same time Holmes tried to grab it, and it went flying across the room to smash with a tinkling crunch against the far wall.

I had never been more relieved. I would not now have to stand constant guard over it, nor defy Holmes's pleas for its return.

My friend, however, was not happy. My heart lightened, I innocently quipped,

"Well, now look what you've done. You have made a mess all over the wall. You'd better clean it up." If looks could kill, I believe Holmes's look would have sent me six feet under right then and there. I merely smiled and settled down in my chair, returning to the newspaper I had been reading that afternoon, a contentedness in me that did not go away no matter how many evil looks Holmes threw my way that evening.


	7. Up in the Air

Up in the Air

**A/N: Heh. This was supposed to be a 221 B… but I never was very good at keeping a word limit. Enjoy, and leave a review please! Also, to everyone who has left a review so far, THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU! They make my day so much happier! I really appreciate that you think my work is good enough to deserve such wonderful praise!**

The wind blew gently all around us, and the colored balloon floating above our heads offered pleasant shade. Holmes was meticulously referencing markers of London, which we now floated serenely over, against a large multicolored map. He had been so absorbed in his work he had barely noticed the spectacular views one can only experience up in the air. Now he folded away the map at last, and nodding toward the pilot of the balloon, we began to descend. He looked down over the rim of the basket one last time, but quickly ducked his head up again.

"Watson." I swiveled my head to gaze in wonder at Holmes, for a change had come over him, his voice tight and his eyes closed.

"What is it, Holmes?" He took a deep breath.

"Have we been this high the whole time?" I was confused at Holmes's reaction.

"Why, of course, Holmes. Hadn't you noticed?"

"I have been so absorbed in my work I had not. I thought it would not matter today, but apparently I was mistaken."

"Thought what wouldn't matter, Holmes?" He took another deep breath, like he was steeling himself for something.

"Watson, have I ever told you I have a bad head for heights?"

"Never. But, Holmes, you don't mean to say you went up in a hot air balloon in full knowledge you grow nervous at heights?"

"Not nervous, Watson. Jittery. Distracted. Anxious." He paused. "Frightened." It was a bit of a shock to find that my friend, level headed in the most dangerous situations, was scared of heights. But I quickly put aside the fact, for it did not matter at the moment. Now, my friend needed reassurance.

"Holmes, it's alright. We will be on firm ground once more in about ten minutes. Surely you will be ok until then?" Holmes nodded, and gave me a tight smile, which I returned.

"Just don't look down," I warned, but just as I said it his eyes flicked to the ground, and when he did not like what he saw, just as quickly shut them tight.

"How much farther, Watson?" I put my hand comfortingly on his arm.

"Not much farther. Just relax and we'll be down before you know it." It was a smooth descent, but about a hundred feet up a sudden wind buffeted the basket. Holmes immediately clutched at my arm, holding me in a bone-crushing grip. I gently chided him,

"Holmes, you're hurting me." He glanced at me quickly and muttered,

"Sorry." But though he did relax his grip, he did not let go of my arm until we had finally landed. Holmes was the first out of the basket, and again on land, his composure was once more the inscrutable mask I was so accustomed to. He looked at me and said with a perfectly straight face,

"Never let me do that again, Watson." I smiled as I replied,

"Of course not, Holmes." No more words passed between us of his momentary weakness, and we walked off arm in arm to our waiting coach.


	8. The Upper Hand

The Upper Hand

**A/N: Haven't updated in a while. It was making me a bit depressed to open my Gmail and see no new reviews… so hopefully this will help!**

"Now, really, Watson, I think I can make it on my own-" He brazenly tried to step onto his left foot, and immediately crumpled into my waiting arm. Giving up on trying to stand, he threw his arm around my shoulder and I took some of his weight, shaking my head.

"Holmes, you have turned your ankle. Perhaps snapped the bone. I assure you, it will not bear your weight. Now if you will just lean on me, I shall help you to a cab and we will be back in Baker Street in no time. Then I can properly treat you." Holmes was fairly bristling with impatience.

"It is not possible, Watson. I simply cannot miss this appointment!" I fixed him with a steady gaze.

"Oh, yes you can. Because you see, by the unlucky incident of you tripping so gracelessly over that crate, you can no longer walk without my help. And I shall not assist you in walking anywhere besides Baker Street." Holmes returned my gaze, annoyance changing to amazement that spread over his face slowly, with a smile following close behind.

"I never would have expected such underhandedness from you, Watson. I suppose it comes from your own brand of innate cunning." I felt like I had won a small victory in that moment. It wasn't often I had any sort of control over Holmes's iron will. But I intended to take full advantage of it- insofar as was required to get Holmes back to Baker Street safely. All further thoughts on the subject were soon diverted, though, as I was completely occupied by the task of helping Holmes into the hansom. It was fairly astounding that a man so thin could be that heavy.


	9. Apparition

Apparition

**A/N: Hehehe… I'm messing with Holmes's mind… I was reading through some of the older stories when THIS popped into my head. Don't ask why, just read and review. **

I had not gotten a wink of sleep worrying over the Crixton case, and the missing letters. The most galling fact about it was probably the most simple- it was I who had misplaced the letters! I had turned over the whole flat in my head, wondering where it could be hidden away, as it was near three in the morning and surely my searches would have woken Watson. After dragging him about London until ten, he deserved some rest, and no doubt my flat mate shared the opinion. Finally, as I was mentally searching my desk for the hundredth time, it came to me- I had left the letters wedged into the space between two drawers!

I could not fathom why I had not remembered this fact earlier. My specific purpose in putting them in such an odd location in the first place was so that I would not lose track of them among the other paraphernalia cluttering the flat. I thrust aside the bedcovers, slid into my slippers and lit a candle, eagerly throwing open the door to the sitting room and crossing to my desk. I quickly rifled it and emerged with the desired letters, and turning around was about to return to my room and study them when something stopped me dead in my tracks.

I am not a man given to supernatural tendencies or beliefs, but for a moment the specter that stood in front of the mantle almost shattered that. I fear I jumped in fright as I beheld it. Its eyes were wide and staring, its figure stooped and loose, its raiment white and long. It held a candle in a pale hand near its side, and just then began to raise the taper ever so slowly to the height of its face… and revealed the specter to be none other than Watson, wide awake, clad in a white dressing gown.

Relief flooded me at the knowledge that no ghastly specter had come from beyond the grave to haunt me. It was a foolish idea, something more akin to Watson and his romantic sensibilities than I and my logic. I mentally reprimanded myself, and then my friend out loud and in perhaps a sharper voice than was required (which, in my defense, was merited by the state of my nerves), clutching a hand to my frantically beating heart,

"Watson! You gave me the start of my life! I thought you some sort of haunted apparition! What are you doing up at this ungodly hour?" He fixed me with a hollow gaze made all the more unsettling by the candle he held under his chin.

"My dear Holmes, you have been relentlessly pacing your room for the past five hours. How could I have gotten any sleep in that pounding racket?" I passed a hand over my face in chagrin for my carelessness. Watson had remarked many times that my pacing kept him from sleep; I suppose I was too absorbed in the problem of the missing letters to have noticed. I stepped toward him and clapped his shoulder, saying in a sincerely apologetic tone,

"I am sorry, my friend. I honestly did not realize I had been pacing. Force of habit, you know. But I have found what I was looking for-" and I held up the letters for him to see- "and I shall immediately retire." Watson's sleep-deprived eyes closed in thankfulness.

"Good God, Holmes, I have to say it will be a blessing to finally be able to fall asleep. I am so tired I can scarcely keep my eyes…" I had to seize his wrist to keep the candle from slipping from his limp hand and igniting the carpet. He was sleeping as he stood, and I had to gently guide him to his room, for I do believe he would have slumped against the wall right then and there and slept as soundly as if it were the finest feather bed.

As for myself, I could also rest easy, for having found the letters, my mind was free and easily fell into the familiar pattern of slumber.

**A/N: My first fic from Holmes's POV. Normally I prefer writing Watson, cus that's how the canon is and I am much more in tune with his style and thought processes, but this fic wouldn't have worked from any POV but Holmes.**


	10. The Chase

The Chase

**A/N: Has anyone ever heard the song "Beep Beep?" It is this strange song from this equally strange album called Dr. Demento… anyways. This fic is based on what I imagined it would be like if it happened to Holmes and Watson. R&R!**

The lonely moor road was deserted. The only traffic its two lanes held was Holmes and I traveling in our cab from the station to Lansfield Park to investigate a strange rash of thefts. The driver was driving at a leisurely pace and my companion and I were content to relax and admire the landscape rolling by. I was looking out the window when I caught glimpse of a fine buck bound past us; I craned my neck to watch it disappear over a rise when I noticed the dog cart on the road behind us.

It was barely visible, sometimes in view over the top of the small undulating hills we traveled over, and sometimes not, but never entirely disappearing. I drew Holmes's attention to it.

"Who could it be?" I asked. Holmes did not look troubled.

"No doubt a fellow traveler, going from the station to a house somewhere farther along the road." I consulted my map, and looked up in astonishment from it.

"But Holmes, Lansfield Park is the last dwelling in this direction, and the nearest town after it has its own station and could easily be reached from it." Holmes's interest was perked in our mysterious follower, and he dug in his coat for a second before pulling out a small hand mirror and holding it out the window to spy on the dog cart. He withdrew it and called sharply to the driver,

"Speed up a bit, my good man. Just for a moment." He then resumed watching through the mirror. I tried to stick my head out the window and observe myself, but a sharp tug on my waistcoat brought me back inside. Holmes admonished me,

"Please do not make yourself conspicuous, Watson. I do not wish them to know we are observing them." I admitted to myself that I should have realized this by the use of the hand-mirror, and obligingly regained my seat.

Holmes uttered a small cry of surprise and turned to me eagerly.

"It appears they are indeed following us, Watson. When I told the cabby to pick up speed, I lost sight of the dog-cart for a good minute or so before they caught up to us once more. I think it is obvious they intend us some mischief, or why trouble to hang back?" He called once more to the driver to speed up. Holmes gazed through the hand mirror at the cart, and I craned my neck to see also. They were gaining on us, encroaching on our progress steadily but surely.

"Faster, cabby! Faster!" I heard the crack of his whip as he obliged. The moorland road was by no means smooth, and the ride was becoming bumpy, but no doubt as bumpy as it must be for the poor man in the dog cart. Finally Holmes grew frustrated with the limited range of the mirror and thrust it back into his pocket, leaning dangerously far out the window to watch our quarry. I followed suit, and could see that the cart had approached even closer. He was less than two hundred feet from us.

Holmes called, I fear in vain, for the driver to go even faster, and I was forced to withdraw inside as a dip in the road nearly caused me to pitch completely out of the cab. My last fleeting glimpse showed that the cart had closed half again the distance between us, with the advantage of speed with less weight to pull, as it only carried the driver and we carried three. Holmes joined me inside now and asked me calmly,

"Watson, do you have your revolver?"

"Always, Holmes," I said as I took it out. "But do you think it will come to that?"

"I do not know what it will come to. I merely think it prudent we be prepared." The dog cart was almost alongside us, and we at top speed could still not outpace it. It drew level with us finally, and as I lifted my revolver I heard the driver call to us through the open window,

"Excuse me, gentlemen! Could you slow it down a bit? I am rather lost, and greatly in need of some directions!" I exchanged a glance with Holmes that could only be described as embarrassment at our marked misinterpretation of the man's motives, and we obligingly slowed and sent the fellow on his way.

A bit later, as we were finishing our business at Lansfield, Holmes remarked to me thoughtfully,

"You recall the incident in the cab, Watson?"

"Of course," said I.

"Please take it as a prime example of the fallibility of the human race, and remember that however much you may like to paint my portrait as a calculating machine in your romantic writings, I am after all only human and prone to such mistakes."

I smiled and assured him that I would remember.


	11. The Silver Cigarette Case

The Silver Cigarette Case

**A/N: I always wondered if Watson ever gave Holmes back his cigarette case that he left at the falls. This is my take on how it might have happened if Watson decided to return it. When I had finished it, it struck me as a bit… sappy. Or overly fluffy, if you will. Well, I guess it's not my opinion that matters, but yours, so R&R!**

I felt the case in my pocket when I sat down across from Holmes in my customary armchair. I had thought about it often in the last few days, and I had finally come to a conclusion: I was going to give it back to him.

When I first came home from the falls and Mary saw the cigarette case, I explained its significance to her and assured her I was not going to keep it. When she asked me why ever not, I merely replied that looking at it would bring back too many painful memories for me. However, my wife, being the thoughtful soul she was, suggested that in time those memories would fade, and I would grow to associate it with the many adventures Holmes and I had shared together.

My wife was correct, and in the three years of Holmes's "death" it was the only thing I had left to remind me of him. It was two years since his return, though, and I now had his presence to satisfy me, and it was high time it was returned.

We had hardly spoken of the incident at Reichenbach since that fateful day he appeared in my sitting room to me, back from the dead as if he had never left. I was loathe to dredge up those events, but I found it impossible in light of the task I was now to undertake.

"Holmes," I slowly began, eliciting his attention from his contemplation of the fire, "I have something I would like to return to you." He nodded, a light of curiosity in his eyes. I had no doubt his mind was whirring to figure out what I had of his that I was now to return. I took the silver cigarette case out of my pocket and held it out to him.

"I have had this for five years now, Holmes. I do not want it anymore." Holmes reached out a thin hand for it, but he gave the case hardly a glance and instead fixed his gaze upon me.

"I had quite forgotten you had this, Watson. I can scarcely believe you kept it all this time. Surely, it was not out of _sentimental _reasons?"

I know I blushed, for I felt the heat in my cheeks and the embarrassment that accompanied it. It was as well that I told the truth, I reasoned, for as Holmes so often said, I was no use at prevaricating.

"Actually, that is exactly the reason. I was at first averse to keeping it, but my wife convinced me otherwise, and in your absence it was the only thing I had to remind myself of the adventures we shared. Now, however, I think it best if I give it back to you," I said, echoing my recent thoughts.

Holmes opened the case, and to his apparent astonishment, the note he had left me telling of his confrontation with Moriarty fell out. He picked it up and cried,

"Watson! Surely you did not keep this, too?" I smiled.

"Isn't it obvious, as you now hold it in your hand?"

"It was purely rhetorical, Watson. But why in the world-?"

"As I said, Holmes. It was a reminder." Holmes nodded thoughtfully. Then he swiftly slipped the note back into the cigarette case and handed it back to me.

"Keep it." I looked up in some surprise, refraining from taking it.

"What?"

"Keep it!" he repeated, offering it to me again. I took it this time and put it back into my pocket.

"But why, Holmes? I wanted you to have it back." Holmes shook his head and looked into the fire.

"Clearly it means more to you than it ever could to me." I studied Holmes's face intently, but he would not look at me, and as his face was at the best of times inscrutable, I could divine no reason for this strange action. I was, however, surprisingly glad he had let me keep it. I had grown curiously attached to the little thing in his absence, and that had not changed in his return.

"Thank you," said I, and I was about to pick up a novel when Holmes said to me in a curiously thick voice,

"Before you occupy your time with that book, I humbly suggest the theater as a more interesting diversion. I believe that if we hurry, we shall just make the last showing of that little play you so like. What was it, ah-?"

"The Scottish play, you mean?"

"Yes, that one! Now don your coat and hat, and we shall leave."

I had the strange feeling this sudden invitation to the theater was a bit of a subtle show of emotion on Holmes's part. What emotion I could only ever guess, as I would never ask my friend outright. But guess I could, and I think I had a very good idea.


	12. Cracks in the Marble

Cracks in the Marble

**A/N: I just had to jump on the bandwagon and write a little piece of that most classic of SH fanfic genres: H/C. Yes, that's right. In this story, Watson gets hurt and Holmes comforts him. Bet you didn't see THAT coming. Then why do so many fics on here deal with the same theme? I put it down to the unforgettable "Adventure of the Three Garridebs." Yeah, you know the one I'm talking about. Watson gets shot and Holmes breaks down. Show's the "cracks in the marble." (If that metaphor was just a bit too subtle for you, the cracks are his emotions and the marble is his emotionless façade.) I read it on some fanfic or another where the author quoted Jeremy Brett as saying that of Holmes. And how fitting a title is it for my own little take on the classic? Alright, without further ado, here it is, written from two points of view (for maximum sap): Watson/Holmes H/C!**

~Holmes~

The knife she held in her right hand and the rope in her left. As I slowly eased open the door to the ballroom my eyes traveled up the rope to the chandelier it suspended through a hook in the ceiling. Watson, standing next to her under the monstrous contraption of crystal and artificial lights, was attempting in vain to coax her out of her attempt to sever the rope and thereby end her life by the weight of a hundred pounds of glass and light. The woman, whom I recognized quickly as the recently widowed Miss Gertrude, was in absolute hysterics, tears streaming down her face in torrents, and I have no doubt her recent bereavement at the hands of the mass murderer Deville was clouding her judgment. Not daring to disrupt Watson's noble attempts to announce my presence, sure that he was achieving a much more convincing plea for her to retain her life than I ever could, I was content to lean against the doorframe and wait, confident in the abilities of my Boswell.

~Watson~

Though having been married once and considering myself as having some knowledge of a woman's sensibilities, it had become clear to me immediately that Miss Gertrude was beyond reason. As a result, I had for some minutes been steadily attempting to creep closer to her and wrest the knife from her grasp and stop her mad scheme to bring down the chandelier on her head. Conscious that I was putting myself in direct danger by moving under it, I nevertheless advanced on her, holding out my hand.

"Miss Gertrude," I cajoled calmly, "Please, see reason. You are obviously upset. It is to be expected. You have suffered a grievous loss at the hands of a murderer. But my friend Mr. Holmes has, at this moment, handed Deville into custody and avenged his death. He will be sentenced with the full force of the British law, and I can assure you-"

"NO!" she screamed, eyes wild with desperation. "It doesn't matter, all is lost, lost, GONE! My poor Robert… oh, Robert…" and with that broke down into renewed sobs. Her grip on the rope convulsed, and above my head, the chandelier jangled slightly. She had looked down at the knife in her hands, and I took the moment of her distraction to pounce.

~Holmes~

I noticed the slight tensing of Watson's body in preparation to spring. I also noticed the woman's momentary distraction. What I did not notice was that before I had arrived, she had obviously already sawed through the rope and was holding both ends together in her closed fist. She was now supporting the chandelier with only her own strength, and I realized that Watson's mad attempt on the knife would overbalance her delicate hold on it and bring death to them both.

No sooner had this chain of thoughts raced through my mind than I had shoved open the door and run into the room, helpless to do anything as I watched the chandelier fall to the floor.

~Watson~

I noticed the severed ends of the rope a second too late. Without thought for my own safety, I grasped the widow around the waist and bodily flung her out of harm's way. I was not a moment too soon as the heavy contraption fell on me. With my doctor's training, I immediately knew that the arm I had futilely flung up to protect my head had broken in at least two places. My knees buckled and as my head cracked against the floor, I knew no more.

~Holmes~

The crash and tinkle of glass, Watson's desperate cry all reached my ears all at once as I ran towards him. Pieces of the ceiling had fallen out with the light fixture and were almost immediately smoldering from the sparks of the electric lights. Whatever had possessed Watson to attempt such a stunt as saving that miserable wretch? It had cost him his life, I was sure, and as I dropped to my knees at the edges of the wreckage I briefly had trouble seeing. To my anger and frustration, I realized that my own tears were the source of the problem, and I furiously dashed them away to focus on extracting Watson.

The chandelier's gilded metal frame had buckled and cracked in places where it had hit the marble floor. Watson lay facedown under it, a stray bar embedded in his leg. Blood was pooling and he was unconscious. I reached under as far as my arm would allow and grasped his wrist, checking desperately for a pulse- there! I felt it! Feeble but beating, his heart was still keeping him alive. I knew that if I did not get him out from under there he would certainly bleed to death. Lestrade and his men had already returned to Scotland Yard with their prisoner, as such I was left alone to rescue my friend.

Though I possessed no inconsiderable amount of strength, it would tax me to the greatest to lift the massive chandelier. Placing my feet in a place relatively free of glass, I braced myself against a fallen piece of masonry and lifted.

I could barely get the thing twelve inches up. Time was ticking. I was no doctor, but I had picked up some things from my boxing days, and I knew that Watson was at least concussed and if he wasn't treated soon could go into a coma from his injuries. This thought gave me new strength, and with my foot, I nudged a piece of wood under the frame to prop it up. I promptly dropped to my face and grasped Watson's shoulders. He gave a small moan. Dear God, he must have broken his arm.

"This will hurt a bit, old fellow," I muttered to him as I pulled his body under the gap I had created with the plank of wood. Once I had him clear I turned him over to assess his injuries.

His face was horribly bruised and cut, almost to the point that it was unrecognizable. His arm twisted at an unnatural angle, and his leg was bleeding freely, the metal strut going through his thigh. How would I get him out of here? I could not carry him myself without causing unbearable pain, and there was no one around I could call for help. My brain worked for a few minutes, wasting precious time, but it was like having the gas on when no one was home: pointless. My pounding heart, to my surprise, brought the clarity that my mind could not. That organ was so frantic and afraid my mind could not think properly. I realized I was being afflicted with the same malady the suicidal widow had been before me: grief. Grief for my poor Watson, who would die if I could not think of something.

Remembering the lady gave me an idea. She lay slumped against a set of stairs, slowly regaining consciousness from her fall. I ran over to her and briskly explained to her,

"My lady, it is imperative you assist me. My friend is dying, and seeing as it is out of your folly, you have an obligation to help." I could not keep the bitterness out of my voice as I thus admonished her. She only nodded dumbly, the tears seemingly stricken from her by shock. "I will need a stretcher to bear Watson to the nearest hospital. Do you have a boy in your employ?"

"Y-yes, Hector, he grooms the horses-" I cut her off.

"Good. Run now, as fast as you can, and tell him that he must call for an ambulance with all haste, as a man's life depends on it. Then get the strongest man in your employ and send him here. We will have need of him before the afternoon is done." She scrambled to her feet and hurried off.

I wiped my brow, a weight leaving me briefly, but quickly returning when I saw Watson was stirring. I hurried over and dropped to his side just as he woke. His face was a mask of pain, and his hand went to his leg. Upon feeling the metal speared through it, his face went white as a sheet. He seemed to be trying to talk.

"There there, old friend, easy. We're going to get you out of here. Just lie down and relax." I am sure I have no bedside manner to speak of, and I was also sure that my tone of voice would betray to Watson the true anxiety I felt for him. I could not, however, bring myself to tell him everything would be alright, for I feared it was a lie.

The thought almost stripped my mind of any clarity it had regained, and if I wanted to remain useful to Watson, I had to stay in control. I shut my eyes tightly and opened them once again at a soft whisper from the man lying before me.

"Wh-where's-… Ger, Ger-"

"Shh, no need to speak. She is alright. Your foolish brand of bravery has saved her undeserving life, and put yours in mortal danger." Watson had dropped into oblivion once more at the news that his heroism had not been for naught, but I continued talking. "Watson, if you die…" I took his hand absentmindedly in mine. "I shall never forgive myself for standing by as you pleaded with that woman to show reason. If I had acted, if I had entered-" But just then I was cut off as I heard the door. I didn't have to turn to discern two sets of feet running towards me.

I stood up, and slowly, with myself directing, we three carefully lifted Watson and carried him into the front hall to await the ambulance.

**A/N: I know nothing of medicine besides what I pick up on House, so please excuse any inaccuracies! Watson would kill me. *cringes.* Hehehe, I think I will leave this on a cliffhanger, as it is already rather long. Who wants to find out if Watson survives or not? I will post the end of this in a day or two. I haven't been updating recently, so the second part will come along soon. In the meantime, leave a review!**


	13. Aftermath

Aftermath

**A/N: Here is the conclusion to "Cracks in the Marble." Enjoy!**

I had often gone days without sleep in the course of a case. It was different then to what I faced now, though, as then I had a case to occupy and fuel my mind. Now, sitting at Watson's bedside, desperate for a movement to tell me if he was ok or not, I found it hard to fight off my weariness. The only thing that ran through my mind was fear. Fear that I would never see my Boswell again, never enjoy his invaluable assistance on a case, never see perpetual astonishment light up his face as I explained some point or another of analytical reasoning. The word "never" threatened to shut down my rational faculties, and I closed my eyes to block it out. When I opened them I was surprised at the tear that leaked out.

I paid it no heed as I focused on Watson. He had been admitted to the hospital ten hours ago, and I had stayed with him throughout, oblivious to the doctor's warnings not to get in their way. They had removed the metal bar, set his arm, treated his concussion and all the numerous superficial cuts and bruises from the glass. It was now around one in the morning of the next day and the doctors had finally finished their ministrations, leaving me alone with a sleeping Watson.

I studied his face with a critical eye, alert for any movement or sound. The surgeons had told me he would not be awake for many hours, and even when he woke he would be in considerable pain. But they did not know Watson as I did. He had a hidden core of strength somewhere within him. How else had he survived the chandelier's crash when any lesser man would have perished?

I remember the look on the doctors' faces when I explained how he had come about his injuries. I had to have Miss Gertrude back me up for them to believe me. (Why the woman had come, I had no idea. Perhaps it was from some faint sense of guilt. I hoped to God it was a very acute sense, for if it was even one tenth of mine it would cause her unending regret.)

How many times in these hours had I replayed the events in my head? If I had moved quicker, reacted faster, _could_ I have saved Watson? Pushed him out of the way as he had the widow? Somehow tricked fate into releasing his victim? I had come to one conclusion from repeated study. If I had saved him, the widow would have gotten her wish and died that night, and I would as surely be the one lying on the brink of death in a hospital bed. The thought that Watson had saved the life I would have given up caused twinges of guilt to pluck at my heartstrings. I had thought it many times before in our friendship, but I knew now without a doubt it was true: of us, Watson was the better man.

_That is why _I _should be here, not you! _I thought with some vehemence. Even though I knew it would do no good, I wished for the thousandth time that our roles were reversed.

I tightened my grip on Watson's hand, and for a moment, I imagined he stirred. Then his eyes fluttered, and what I thought was a grief-borne delusion turned into reality. I bent over him eagerly as his eyes finally opened. His mouth was set in a hard line, and he was obviously in pain. The nurses had given me strict instructions to tell them when he woke, but I could not resist taking this moment to ask my friend,

"Watson! Watson, thank god you're awake! Are you alright? Please, man, say something!" He did not move his head, but his eyes flicked to mine and he answered with a whispered,

"Yes. Holmes, it- it-"

"What is it?" I asked eagerly. I was thrilled to my core that he was alive, talking! His gaze never left mine.

"It wasn't your fault." Oh my. Oh my oh my, he _hadn't _been unconscious when I told him that if he died I would never forgive myself. His voice was just a whisper when he continued, and I strained to hear. "I made a choice… to save her… and accept the consequences. I wish you could… accept them too." The wretched tears were back again. "Holmes… are you… crying?" I blinked rapidly.

"Nonsense, old boy. You still aren't quite in your right mind. We'll talk later. For now, you must sleep." Watson nodded, and I could see clearly how badly he needed sleep as he immediately dropped off.

I took no cases for the months Watson spent recovering. He frequently admonished me for neglecting my practice, but sometimes, when he could not get up from his bed for the pain or could not manage his crutches with his bandaged arm, I saw how grateful he was for my help. It was nearly a year before he was finally able to accompany me on a case again. His limp was even more pronounced, but his arm was fully healed, and besides from the old annoyance of the Jezail bullet it gave him no trouble.

We were breakfasting, and as he came down his face was thoughtful.

"What is on your mind, Watson?" I asked. He sat across from me and said carefully,

"Holmes, you remember when I was in the hospital, the night after the accident?" My face immediately sobered.

"Of course. I do not think I could ever forget that night." Watson continued slowly,

"I asked you to accept the consequences of my actions and not blame yourself. I was wondering if you had yet." I avoided his gaze as I thought, and I responded with the honest, unpolished truth.

"Watson, if I had a choice, I would have switched places with you gladly, without a second thought. I believe that you committed a foolish, unnecessary act of bravery that day. The woman _wanted _to die, after all. I watched as the chandelier fell, and I thought for the longest time that I could have somehow saved you if I acted sooner." Watson looked up at me sharply, but I continued before he could. "_But_, I have come to realize that only an act of providence could have saved you that day. And I thank the same providence that it did." Watson was smiling at me, genuinely happy for the first time in a long while. But there was one last thing I had to know.

"Watson, please answer me this: Would you do it again?" It was his turn to look sobered. When he answered, I found it evasive, yet highly gratifying.

"If you mean would I still save the woman, yes. But for all the world, I would not cause you so much pain as I have these past few months, for I know, were I in your position, what I should feel. For that, I am truly sorry, and I would never do it again."

"Thank you, Watson." And with that, I smiled, and returned to my breakfast.


	14. An Elementary Deduction

An Elementary Deduction

**A/N: The basis for this isn't mine, I was searching for Sherlock Holmes on Yahoo! Answers when I came across this SH joke. I have come across mentions of it elsewhere, so I am thinking it isn't anything new? I don't know. (I will put the full version in at the end so as to not spoil the story.) But you can't really say I am plagiarizing because I rewrote it into the story! Also, it is probably the only thing I will ever write that outright makes fun of Holmes and Watson. Is it just me, or are these author's notes getting a bit too out of hand? You're right, I'll shut up now.**

It was with great astonishment I received from Holmes one fine spring day an invitation to the countryside for a camping trip. Eager to escape the close atmosphere of London, I made my excuses to my wife, packed my bags, and set out.

Night set in and we put up our tent. Some hours later, after I had fallen soundly asleep, I felt myself wakened by a shake on my shoulder. I stirred groggily and wondered what on earth Holmes could want of me I the middle of the night in the wilderness. Before I could voice this he said,

"Watson, look up at the sky and tell me what you see." I raised an eyebrow, but nonetheless replied,

"I see millions of stars."

"What does that tell you?"

I felt sure Holmes expected some sort of deduction from me. I pondered for a moment, many different scenarios of what to say filtering through my mind. Finally I decided that thoroughness would best please Holmes, so I told him them all.

"Well," I began, "Astronomically speaking, it tells me that there are millions of galaxies and potentially billions of planets. Astrologically, it tells me that Saturn is in Leo. Time wise, it appears to be approximately a quarter past three. Theologically, it's evident the Lord is all-powerful and we are small and insignificant. Meteorologically, it seems we will have a beautiful day tomorrow." I glanced sideways at Holmes, and seeing his expression, quickly demanded, "What does it tell _you_?"

He was silent for a moment. Then he turned his head and fixed me with a gaze as though he were studying a particularly dense student.

"Watson, you idiot, someone has stolen our tent."

Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson go on a camping trip, set up their tent, and fall asleep. Some hours later, Holmes wakes his faithful friend.'Watson, look up at the sky and tell me what you see.'Watson replies, 'I see millions of stars.''What does that tell you?'Watson ponders for a minute.' Astronomically speaking, it tells me that there are millions of galaxies and potentially billions of planets. Astrologically, it tells me that Saturn is in Leo. Time wise, it appears to be approximately a quarter past three. Theologically, it's evident the Lord is all-powerful and we are small and insignificant. Meteorologically, it seems we will have a beautiful day tomorrow. What does it tell you?Holmes is silent for a moment, then speaks.' Watson, you idiot, someone has stolen our tent.'


End file.
